


Chasing Ghosts

by lainathiel



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Betrayal, Drama, F/M, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Lovers to Friends, Multi, Original Female Character - Freeform, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vigilantism, War, aka my would be specialty, all that good shit, but i gotta get out of my comfort zone more so there's gonna be original male characters as well, but it's not lol, how does OC fit in the whole clusterfuck, is this a family drama?, it's been a while on me working on writing in first person pov, read to find out, tagged it as reader if that's something you guys enjoy you can technically read it as such, technically the whole series is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-14 03:40:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17500844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lainathiel/pseuds/lainathiel
Summary: She knows too much.





	1. Chapter 1

The thoughts come to me all the time, and I always wonder, even though I know the truth. It's hard not to doubt everything now. Sometimes it keeps me up at night, wondering if any of it was real and if he's just played me like everyone else. I think about how far he's gone, how much he's done. I wonder if the man I knew ever even existed, and if he did, can he be saved, brought back from this brink that he's walking?  
  
It's even harder to get these thoughts off my mind now that he's intent on trying to reach me every day. God only knows how he even got my number, but then again, I wouldn't put it past him to reach the God damn president. Billy's always had a way with people, and now that he has all the money and connections he'll ever need, the whole world's at his feet.  
  
There aren't many places I can hide from him. I used to go see Curt a couple of times a month, but ever since he told me Billy was asking about me over there, I've stopped altogether. Hell, Billy's even come to my apartment, more than a few times. He'd come and he'd ring the bell and I'd just wait for him to leave, never opening the door, as tempting as it always might be.  
  
I haven't been hiding from _him_ , of course. I've been hiding from myself, and I know it to be true, plain and simple. Facing my own sins has been long overdue, and they're all written in Billy's eyes. When I see him, I see myself. And it's not a pretty sight.  
  
I know he keeps tabs on me, all the time. Billy keeps tabs on everything of any importance to him, but I wonder if he's doing it because he still cares about me in some way or because I'm a potential liability that he just can't seem to get rid of. Is it both? I mean, if he wanted me gone, I'd be dead by now. And the Billy that I knew would never have let anything harm me. Is that Billy still in there, behind those calculated black irises?  
  
Sometimes I wish he _would_ just kill me. I'd want it to be him too, giving me the gift of sweet mercy. The weight of the secret I'm living with is sometimes too heavy to bear, and I hate that thought even as I think it. Whenever people used to say shit like that about something, I thought it corny, wanted to laugh. Now I know exactly how it feels. I've done and seen some shit that will last me seven lifetimes, but nothing was ever as hard as this.

The worst thing about carrying a secret isn't even the act of bearing it. It's the fact that you can't do anything about it. And I know I can't. There's no making it right, now. No matter what I do, it will never right the wrong. God knows I've tried, and paid a heavy price for it. Nothing changes, it all stays the same, the world keeps turning around.  
  
The phone rings, tearing me away from my thoughts. The vibration against my night-stand startles me so much that it stops my heart for a second. I look at the screen, only to see that it's Curtis calling.

Of course it's Curtis.  
  
''Hey,'' I hear the voice of the only friend I have left in the world, and it covers me with warmth, ''Sleeping in?''  
  
''Nah, I'm awake,'' I rub my eyes, getting to pouring myself some coffee, ''What's up, Curt?''

''Just checking on you,'' he admits, ''Haven't seen you or heard from you in a while.''

''Yeah, well, I've been busy,'' I say, grimacing at the taste of the first sip of coffee, ''You know how it is.''  
  
''Yeah.. Listen, I was wondering if maybe you wanna come to the circle today,'' he says, though almost reluctantly, ''It's been a while. I think it would do you good.''  
  
''Come on, Curt, we've been over this,'' I tell him, taking one more sip of the bitter, black beverage, ''I'm not coming to whatever Billy's money is funding. No offence.''

He doesn't say anything to that. I instantly feel like shit.

''Don't get me wrong, Curt. You're doing a really good thing there. I mean it,'' I add apologetically, ''I just... can't. I just can't, man.''  
  
Silence for another long moment, as though he's carefully crafting his next thought.  
  
''Look, I don't know what happened between you two, and by the looks of it, I'll never find out,'' he sighs, and I can almost visualize him rubbing the scowl between his eyes, ''But it's childish, and you know it. Besides, he hasn't come here in ages. You won't have to see each other.''  
  
For a moment, I consider it. I haven't seen Curtis in a while, and it's always good to see him. He really is doing a wonderful thing - hell, he always was the best of us - but thinking about the dirt beneath it all always freezes my blood. I can't do it. I can't face it.  
  
''Tell you what,'' I say, downing the rest of the coffee, ''Call me after you're done. We'll go grab a drink somewhere.''  
  
I can hear him chuckle over the phone, but it somehow sounds almost sad. ''Alright,'' he says, and I can see that nod of defeat in my mind, ''Alright, I'll call you later then.''

''Alright then,'' I smile. I hang up. Not five seconds later, the phone rings again, startling me once more.

Speak of the devil, they say.

I reject the call, not wanting to stare at the name ''Billy Russo'' for too long. Every time I do, the anger fades, and nostalgia kicks in, and I'm tempted to talk to him, try to make it all right. It's a level of delusion I can't allow myself to reach.  
  
I consider changing my phone number again, but I know it will do nothing in the way of removing me from Billy. It'd take him less than a day to track the new number down.  
  
I look at the time - 5 p.m. Shit, I did sleep in. But that's what happens when you work on your own hours and mostly do night shifts. Days tend to lose definition.  
  
I get dressed quickly and make myself presentable. The real world has its own rules, and looking nice is one of them. Night time is my time, it's when _my_ rules are the ones that are followed, but until then, I have to blend in. It's one of the first things they teach you about survival back at JFK School: act like the natives.  
  
Quickly applying some make-up and adjusting my hair, I check my ammo, then strap the gun beneath my jacket. I have to get this job done before Curt calls, and I have to do it as clean as possible. I'd hate to answer his million questions.

Curtis always has a million questions.  
  
*  
  
It's a small gig today, and almost a routine one: I stake out the guy, eat while I wait, then follow as soon as he appears where I expected him to be. I've done it a million times before, I've done it since time exists. I feel I could do it blindfolded now, like a choreography.  
  
The good thing about being a woman in this line of work is that they always underestimate you. It's an incredible weapon, being underestimated, if you know how to use it. I've had my fair share of practice with it. Over time, it's become like second skin.  
  
It's always a second too late when the guy at the other end of my gun realizes it. There's always that one tiny moment when something breaks inside a person and it immediately shows in their eyes.  
  
I've just witnessed it again. I've forgotten the man's name - I learn too many of those over the course of a week - but the face is all I need. And right now the face in front of me is showing nothing but fear.  
  
''Please,'' the man almost whimpers through his jittery jaw. Speaking alone took courage, as my silencer rests at his chin. His whole body is shaking. Maybe, in another world, this man could even pass for handsome, if he wasn't so pathetic.

It's always guys like this that fool women.  
  
''Don't beg,'' I tell him, adjusting the firm hold I have on him, ''And don't you dare try and get brave on me. Wrong move and your brain will paint these walls. I mean, I don't mind - you'd make things really easy for me.''  
  
This time, he whimpers for real. I feel another pulsating sting in my jaw, and want to curse at myself. I can't believe I let him take that swing at me.  
  
''Look, whatever it is you want, take it,'' he stutters as quietly as he dares, ''Money, car, I don't care. Just let me go.''  
  
Instead of pressing his head firmer against the wall, this time I slam it. He cries out, spitting blood.  
  
''Listen to me, you piece of shit,'' I hiss in his ear, silencer pressed against his temple, ''It would take days upon days 'til someone found you in this alley. The rats would have eaten your sorry ass by then, and no one would even recognize whatever's left. And if I'm being honest here, I like the sound of that.''  
  
''No!'' he cries, ''Please-''  
  
''But,'' I press the silencer harder, ''It's the new year, you see. And I've made a resolution to kill less, lucky for you. New year, better me, all that jazz. So here's what you're gonna do.''  
  
The blond man beneath my grip jerks, then stills, fear finally taking all over. He's now afraid to even breathe too loud, as he listens intently.  
  
''You're gonna go to the nearest precinct, and turn yourself in,'' I instruct him, ''You're gonna tell them every little detail of how you've been abusing your wife, you're gonna plead guilty, and you're gonna give up the kids. If you don't, I will know, and I will know _fast_. And then it's time to do it my way.''  
  
The man whimpers again, eyes closed and nose bloody, as I press his face against the wall harder.  
  
''Hey! Hey! Flanders, was it? Okay, Flanders, I need to know that you copy,'' I yank him by his hair, pulling him back to place the gun beneath his jaw, ''You copy, Flanders, huh? You got it all?''  
  
''Y-yeah- I-''  
  
''Say you got it, Flanders,'' I growl, ''Tell me you got it.''  
  
''I got it, I got it!'' he cries, spluttering some blood, ''I got it, alright, just-''  
  
''Good boy.''  
  
He stumbles when I let go of him, disoriented, almost falling back on his ass. For a moment, we both just stand there, because it's always in this one tiny moment in between that the most important decision is made: will he do something stupid?  
  
He doesn't. Smart guy, I think, as I watch him all but run out of the alley.

If he's not in cuffs by tonight, I'll enjoy getting my hands dirty.  
  
*  
  
My jaw won't bruise much, but my lower lip did get busted, and the red lipstick hardly covers it. Still, I adjust my make-up, switch my combat boots for some high heel sandals, itching to feel some semblance of normalcy. The boots make my bag heavy, but it's a normal looking bag. I look like just another girl in a bar, about to enjoy some drinks with a friend.  
  
Maybe, in another life, I would have made a great actress.  
  
Curtis smiles wide when he greets me, and I know it's genuine. He already has our drinks on the table - two glasses of nice looking red wine. I'm grateful for how refreshing this all is. I don't know if I would know what normal is, without Curtis.  
  
''Figured we could take a break from dingy bars and cheap beer,'' he says as he pulls away from the hug, ''Besides, no offence, but you seem like you've been needing a good laugh lately.''  
  
''Ain't gonna argue with you on that, Curt,'' I grin.  
  
The comedian performing proves to be actually talented and funny as all hell. We spend the whole show laughing whole-heartedly, and by the time it finishes, I feel like some weight's been lifted off my shoulders, like every tear that's escaped me was a toxin just itching to get out of my body.  
  
It's good to see Curtis laugh too. If I've ever known someone who truly deserves to be happy, it's him.  
  
We talk about this and that for a while, about the normal things in life. It's always a struggle for me, talking about normal shit, but not with Curtis. There's something about him that heals. No wonder people keep flocking to his counsel group.  
  
''So, how's life?'' he asks after a while, leaning over the table as though to prod me, ''What you been up to?''  
  
''Not much,'' I reply evasively, swirling the wine in my glass, ''Just getting by.''  
  
Curtis pauses for a moment, squints only a bit, before clearly deciding to let go of whatever it was that he wanted to say.  
  
''Well, you look good,'' he says instead, leaning back into his chair, ''Even with a busted lip.''  
  
''Come on, Curt,'' I almost sigh, shaking my head. We don't have to do this right now, I think, but don't say.  
  
''I'm not gonna nag you, if that's what you think,'' he puts up his hands as though in surrender, ''I just wanna know, that's all.''  
  
''Why, is it gonna make you feel better?''  
  
''I don't know,'' he replies, ''But I _am_ your friend. Not knowing's worse.''  
  
I sigh, defeated. I never could hide shit from him, but the secret I'm bearing on my shoulders could cost him his life just like it's cost countless others, and I can't let that happen.  
  
I can, however, at least divulge what I've been doing lately to earn my living.  
  
''It's just an easy way for me to get money, that's all,'' I shrug, ''No big deal.''  
  
''No big deal?'' he asks, ''You sporting a new bruise every time I see you is no big deal? Yeah, I've noticed.''  
  
''Yeah, I know you have,'' I argue, ''And you've clearly known for a while, so I don't see why the questions.''  
  
He leans over again, bores his eyes into mine. ''When does it end, Jules? Hm? When you're five feet below ground?''  
  
''Thought you said you weren't gonna nag me,'' I taunt, downing what's left in my glass.  
  
''Well, I lied,'' Curtis says, ''Someone has to nag you.''  
  
''Look, I'm fine, Curt, alright?'' I argue, ''These guys, they might sneak a punch on me, but they're not even a threat, really. Trust me. This is some petty shit I deal with. Bullies and domestic abusers, that's all.''  
  
''I'm not questioning your skills, Julia,'' Curt says, ''But even the toughest S.E.A.L. can go down by a stray bullet. Sometimes, luck runs out. You know this.''

I do know it. But I also know that doing what I'm doing is the only thing that makes sense to me right now.

''You can have a normal life, Jules, a new start-''  
  
''A normal life?! Jesus Christ, Curtis - doing what?'' I argue, ''Selling insurance?''  
  
He doesn't reply to that.  
  
''Look, I commend you for what you do, I really do. Hell, I envy you even. I wish I could just-,'' I take a breath, calming down completely, ''I just can't live with what I've done, Curt. I can't... just move on.''  
  
''You haven't done anything any of the rest of us hasn't done too,'' he argues me. He's wrong, of course. He doesn't know.  
  
''I'm making a difference now, Curt,'' I admit, staring at the edges of my glass, afraid to look him in the eye for fear of them reflecting just how ridiculous I am, ''Maybe it's a small difference, but I'm doing _something_. Helping _someone_ , you know? The women and the kids that don't have a voice. I don't know how else to do it. How else to redeem myself.''  
  
''Redeem yourself for what?'' he drills me still, ''What, you couldn't help the Castles so you're hell-bent on protecting every other family in New York City? That was never your responsibility! It's not on you-!''  
  
''Can we not talk about the Castles?'' I swallow back the tears and look him straight in the eyes, ''Okay, Curtis? Please. I can't.''  
  
He looks at me for a moment, sees the pain and anger and desperation in my eyes. Then he concedes.  
  
''Okay,'' he nods, ''Okay.''  
  
I remember how happy Frank was the last time he'd come home. He'd taken Maria and the kids to the park - a tradition of sorts - and he couldn't wipe that God damn grin off his face all day. Billy bought food for us and Lisa was telling me about some stupid high-school freshman stuff that always brought me a twinge of childhood nostalgia, without fail. Maria teased me and Billy about our back-and-forth thing, as she always did. Frank laughed through it all.

I pour another glass.


	2. Chapter 2

_''I don't know about this, Billy,'' I say, as he draws tiny circles on my back, his fingertips gently caressing my skin. Goosebumps follow in his wake, and the incredible warmth of his closeness engulfs me as he draws nearer, and finally wraps his arms around me, placing a kiss on my shoulder. He doesn't say anything for a while - he just holds me, nuzzles my neck, and places an occasional kiss on my skin._  
  
_''I hate this as much as you do,'' he finally says, tearing the silence apart, ''But this is how we get out. This is how we get to be done with all of it.''_  
  
_''I just... it feels wrong,'' I admit._  
  
_''Because it is wrong,'' he says, turning me over to look at him, ''You'll never catch me pretend otherwise. This shit is wrong in every way imaginable. But it's our way out. And if I have to break a few rules to give us a better life-''_  
  
_''I don't need a better life,'' I stop him, cupping his face as he towers over me, ''I have all I need, right here. All I want is- I don't know, I just want us to stay still for once. For you to stay still. We keep running circles around each other, and we keep going back to these shit-holes every time-''_  
  
_''This is how we stop,'' he interrupts me, ''Okay? This is how we finally stand still.''_  
  
_He places a kiss on my lips, then brushes his nose against mine as he pulls back. His thumb gently goes over the small scar on my cheekbone._  
  
_''No more fighting,'' he says, ''No more scars. After this, we're set for life. We won't have to worry about anything anymore.''_  
  
*  
  
I pull down the blinds and lock my apartment, as soon as my shoes are off. It's ridiculously ironic how much safer I feel when I'm on the move, out in the open, in the streets. I'll never be safe in this apartment - hell, I'll never be safe anywhere - but after all this time, it almost feels like home. It seems like the closest thing I've had to one in years, anyway. I could get a new place, but I've grown used to this outline - I know every nook and cranny blindfolded, and I like my exits where they are. I feel comfortable enough with it, and would dread getting to know some new stretch of space all over again.  
  
Billy knows where I live, but apparently, I have nothing to fear from him. If anyone else knew that I'm here, I'd be sporting a bullet-hole in my forehead before I could change the curtains. I've spent months here now. The only unwanted visitor I've had has been Billy Russo.  
  
Still, you can never be too careful. Routinely, I check all the locks, all of my exits, and all the cameras. The TV is showing the live-feed from all the angles, all working as usual. Out of habit, I want to pour myself a drink, but seeing as I'm still feeling the buzz from my night out, I go straight for the shower.  
  
I try to wash the day away, but all my mind chooses to remember is Billy in this shower with me, Billy kissing my neck, Billy washing my wound, Billy making love to me.  
  
I get out of the shower worse than I got in.  
  
Putting my hair in a towel, I check my phone. Another message from him. I delete it immediately.  
  
I always delete Billy's messages and voicemails before I can read or hear them. There's absolutely no need for those temptations - I don't want him to explain things over and over again, and one of these days, he'll have to stop. Surely, even Billy Russo can tire himself out.  
  
I grab my laptop and open my browser, wanting to skim through the news of the day, but the headliner on my homepage makes me freeze, a giant lump stuck in my throat.  
  
**_''Carson Wolf, Homeland Security Special Agent in Charge, Found Dead in His Home''_**  
  
Every damn platform is screaming about it. How'd I not catch this earlier today?  
  
I'm almost afraid to actually read one of these. I have this weird sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach that feels almost like a warning, like whatever I'm about to read is just the start of another shit-pile.  
  
With some reluctance, gathered-up nerve and another glass of wine after all, I finally make myself click on one of the articles. I quickly skip through the parts I don't care about, as my heart does an odd little flip.  
  
_''Based on Wolf's numerous injuries and several obvious signs of severe struggle, the death was quickly ruled as a murder. The investigators in charge are working on building the whole case as they try to explain exactly how the killer was able to get past all the security measures placed on Wolf's home, before they can get to the why. Despite all the damage inside the residence and certain aspects of the event in question that have been described as ''sloppy'' - our first reports insist on a unanimous agreement that this seems to be the work of a professional assassin.''_  
  
I slam the laptop closed and throw it down at my bed. I don't need to read any more. There isn't anything else I will find out anyway. That's peak NYC journalism - everyone using big buzzwords to chew over the same story over and over again, from paper to paper. People will be reading the same pile of recycled words for days.  
  
Reading more won't help this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, that's for sure.  
  
I've always suspected Wolf was working with Agent Orange. I never had any proof, but it all made perfect sense, too perfect. Shit just fits, and if I've been right this whole time, and Wolf was murdered because of his shady drug deals, then there's someone out there who might still know about Kandahar.  
  
Oh, fucking hell. If this is what I think it is, then I'm not the only one that's slipped under their radar. Shit's not comforting at all. If anything, this person may very well come after me just for knowing what I shouldn't.  
  
Oh, Jesus Christ. I need to think straight, I need to _think_. A million scenarios are shuffling through my mind as I pace around the apartment, but I need to think, not spiral down a whirlpool of paranoia. Think! What's reasonable doubt here?  
  
_Calm down, Julia. Jesus Christ_ , I think, making myself sit down. _You've suspected a lot of shit. Doesn't mean it's true.  
_  
_But it fits too perfectly, doesn't it? Even the Castles' deaths. Shit just always stank too bad for it to be a wrong place wrong time type of thing. And you saw it coming, didn't you? You sensed that shit would somehow eventually fall on Frank, and it did. And you didn't help for shit._  
  
Oh, but I've tried. I shook every tree and dug every hole until it almost cost me my own head. I've tried, and paid my own price.  
  
It wasn't enough.  
  
''Jesus Christ,'' I spit out loud this time. How far has this thing really gone? Have all my suspicions been spot on this whole time? How could I ever live with that?  
  
Before I can truly realize what I'm doing, I'm calling Billy. His phone rings a few times, and just before he picks up the call, I'm tempted to throw my phone at the wall with everything I have in me.  
  
''Hello?'' his voice freezes my heart. I can't bring myself to respond.  
  
''Julia?'' he asks again, a twinge of worry in his voice, ''You alright? Julia-''  
  
''I'm fine,'' I let go of the breath I've been holding.  
  
''I've been trying to talk to you for months,'' he says, ''But you already know that-''  
  
''Billy, I have questions,'' I cut him off, ''And this time, you'll give me the answers.''  
  
A pause, almost too long. I hear him breathe, but it's like he's pondering whether he should say another word from this point on.  
  
''What is it?'' he almost sighs.  
  
''Carson Wolf's dead,'' I say, ''Was he working with Orange?''  
  
''Julia-''  
  
''Answer me,'' I insist, ''Answer me, Billy. You owe me much more than that.''  
  
''I- I don't know,'' he sighs, ''Could be. Probably. Someone has to be picking it all up stateside. Perfect guy for the job.''  
  
I nod. I forget he can't see me. Right now I'm just trying to produce more words.  
  
''Why?'' he asks me instead, ''After all this time of pretending I don't exist, that none of this shit ever happened, why ask about it now? You have a clean slate. Nothing to do with this, nothing to do with _me_ -''  
  
''It doesn't bother you?'' I interrupt him, ''It definitely bothers me, Billy. I carry this shit on my conscience-''  
  
''You didn't do anything-''  
  
''That's exactly the problem, isn't it?''  
  
He quiets down. I let the silence take over us for a while, let it put him in a choke-hold.  
  
''I've been trying to move on,'' I admit after a while, breaking the silence, ''I can't. Nothing works. I always feel like I have to right this wrong, and it's not even in my power to do it. It's like an endless cycle. Always trying to do something, and always ending up feeling empty. It doesn't haunt you?''  
  
''Just because I don't look like it, doesn't mean it doesn't haunt me. You know that better than anyone,'' he insists, ''But you also know better than anyone who and what I've done it all for.''  
  
''Stop it, Billy,'' I hiss, ''You haven't done shit for me. It's all been for you, it's always been for you-''  
  
''Oh, yeah? Why do you think you're still alive?'' he asks, taunts me, ''How do you think you've slipped under Orange's radar? Was that for me as well?!''  
  
''Am I supposed to thank you for not letting your associates murder me?'' I want to shriek, ''Is the bar that low now, Billy?''  
  
''You know I'd never let them hurt you-''  
  
''Is that why Frank is really dead? Because he knew something, or did something-?''  
  
''Julia, it's not-''  
  
''Was I supposed to be another body on a pile?''  
  
''There wasn't even supposed to be a body in the first place!'' Billy almost shouts, which means he's at home, safe to talk about anything, ''You know that! It was supposed to be clean and over with in a couple of days, and it's not my fault that it got out of hand!''  
  
''What about Frank-''  
  
''Stop,'' he hisses, ''Frank was my brother.''  
  
I know that. The Castles were his family. If they died because of this, then it can't have been Billy's fault. He wouldn't have known about it.  
  
''Look, let me come over and we can talk-''  
  
''No.''  
  
''Julia-''  
  
''I said no,'' I say, ''I want to be done with this, Billy. And being done with this means being done with you.''  
  
''Julia, I'm done with it,'' he argues, urges me almost, ''It's done, it's over with.''  
  
''Clearly not,'' I say, ''Unless Wolf's had his fingers in another pie, someone knows, and someone's after justice. I'd watch out if I were you.''  
  
''You know my part in it. You know what I have and have not done,'' Billy argues, and I can almost see him clenching his jaw the way he so often does, ''If smuggling some drugs across the border makes me the worst man in the world, then so be it.''  
  
''I hope you're happy, Billy. I really do,'' I admit, ''I hope you finally have everything you've always wanted.''  
  
''Not everything,'' he says, before I hang up the call. I decide to pretend I didn't hear that.  
  
Checking my ammo one more time, I put my gun below my pillow, and throw myself at the bed.  
  
I'll sleep tonight, God damn it. If I die, I die, but tonight I'll sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

I don't normally do this. Jobs like this are usually high risk, and I try to avoid those. It's all about living to fight another day - I know that I'm no good to anyone if I get my head blown up in an old warehouse at the docks.

Frank didn't care about that. He didn't care if he lived or died anymore, and though I can't exactly blame him for it, it still makes me angry.  
  
We were always different, Frank and I. I don't just kill the way he does; not unless I absolutely have to. I'm not The Punisher, and I could never hope to be. I can't just spill some brains and go home like nothing happened. I'd like to think that I wasn't made of that stuff, and if I was, I don't want to let myself find out.

I loved Frank to death, but I know he had a beast inside him. He knew it too, and he never pretended otherwise. I don't judge him for it, either. The world needs that beast sometimes. No one's going to shed a tear over any of the people that he took down. And while I don't mind shooting any of these bastards down, I don't have the ease with which he operated. Sometimes, I wish I did.  
  
Frank was a good man. He was also a killing machine. I never thought I'd one day learn that those two things are not necessarily mutually exclusive.  
  
The way I do things has to be different, for my own sake. If I can get these bastards behind bars, preferably without risking my own neck, I'll do that. But sometimes, _sometimes_ that's just not possible. Frank knew that best.  
  
If I tipped off the police now, I know they wouldn't come.  
  
See, I've done all the right things first. I've sent photos, videos, tips and just about anything I could get my hands on straight to both NYPD and Homeland. No one has done shit. These guys were still out there, every time, still doing their thing. Now, I don't know whether there's someone in the system profiting off of this shit, or whether they're after something bigger and can't close in on these assholes yet, but I don't care. I've been after them for too long. It ends here.  
  
I've tracked these assholes the whole God damn winter. I've had my ass frozen solid on numerous rooftops, and my fingers so numb that I didn't think I could pull the trigger even if I'd had to. And now, after all that misery, I finally have these scumbags right where I want them. There's no police in the world that could stop me.  
  
This would be almost too easy if the girls weren't in there. I could just blow up the warehouse, without much of a care whose body parts end up in the water. But these girls are what I'm here for. I need to get them out safely, and to do that, I have to take out the traffickers one by one.  
  
I've done this before, and more than once, but this isn't Afghanistan. War is different, it has its own rules - hell, even a mind of its own. Over there, even if you fuck up, you're taught to rationalize it, to just get on with it. You make peace with what you've had to do, as fragile as that peace is. You kill an innocent person and it haunts you but you have these methods and techniques, all these little lies to help you make yourself believe it wasn't your fault. These little white lies you tell yourself get you by, for the most part.  
  
Not here. There's no rationalizing this. I fuck this up, I get these girls killed - it's on me. No two ways about it.  
  
I wait and watch through the scope. The angle I have from this rooftop gives me a clean view of the interior of the warehouse, and once the vehicles roll in, I spot the mini-van with the girls immediately.  
  
It takes all I have in me to stop myself from doing something stupid once I actually see the girls. The sight of them absolutely shatters me. I count eight of them, most of them just kids in their teens, and some of them have obviously been beaten into submission more times than they could count. I can see the purple patches of skin even from here, though I suppose that's been the least of their problems. Something twists in the pit of my stomach, and I suddenly feel sick.  
  
The girls are wearing next to nothing, shivering in the cold of the night with their wrists bound. They're tied to each other, just in case one of them tries to run. The buyers feel them up for a while, groping them and inspecting their bodies like the merchandise they see them as. I have to stomach it, and hate myself for it. I can't do anything until the right moment.  
  
The girls don't even flinch. I don't see fear in any of them. As a matter of fact, I don't see anything, which is what truly breaks my heart. It also makes me want to vomit.  
  
Finally, they're transferred into another vehicle, a white mini-van that looks exactly like the one that drove them in. I do the count one more time.  
  
O'Rourke, with three of his goonies in tow, seems to be negotiating with the buyers. Four more of his men are outside, standing watch at the entrance where they've parked their other two cars. I can't recognize any of the buyers, though I'm sure I've skimmed their faces before, and it doesn't matter anyway. What matters is that I've counted them right - exactly five of them.  
  
That's thirteen men I want to go against, by myself.  
  
I check my sanity one more time, then remind myself I've done this before, as different as it may seem in my mind. We didn't always manage to rescue every single civilian, but we've faced worse, and there were times when I was stranded and alone. This isn't something I can't do. It's about how I'm willing to do it.  
  
Technically, I just have to get the girls out. Any number of these assholes that I take down along the way is fine by all standards.  
  
''Jesus, Julia,'' I curse at myself, adjusting the rifle, ''Somehow you're always back to neck deep.''  
  
I watch. I breathe. I think it all through again, then want to thank all the gods for my luck when two of the men up front decide to check the perimeter.  
  
I keep them in my sights as they take a little walk around the warehouse, and as soon as they're in the shadows behind and out of sight of the rest, I drop them. Clean, quiet, and quick - they're on the ground before either of them can catch what's happening to them.  
  
The two still by the cars seem to be chatting over some cigarettes, bored with the wait. I have to move fast, before they realize their two friends are taking a little too long for their liking.  
  
Slinging the M16 over my shoulder, I rush down through the building fast. Luckily for me, the night is cloudy and moonless, and no matter how bright NYC is, here at the docks, it's a different world. The shadows cover me when I keep low, well enough for me to draw near their cars. Skulking behind a Mercedes, I collect myself again. They're only a few feet in front of me, and I can hear them loud and clear now, but they're still oblivious to my presence. That won't last long.  
  
I whistle, loud.  
  
''The hell is that?''  
  
''John, that you? Come on, what are you guys doing back there, get a room maybe?!''  
  
''John?''  
  
''Over here, dumbass,'' I call. The idiots could hardly even tell where the noise was coming from, but now they catch on fast.  
  
''What the hell-?'' one of them starts, as they begin walking cautiously toward the car, but the headshots come clean, and they fall almost on top of each other. As quickly as I can, I drag the bodies out of the lights and behind the vehicles.  
  
Nine left, and still none the wiser.  
  
I all but crawl to the warehouse entrance, almost merging with the wall. Then I shoot the lights out.  
  
Yelling. Panic. Guns clicking. Arguing, then shouting orders.  
  
I use the confusion to throw myself inside, behind the crates that I know won't stop any bullets once they start raining upon me.  
  
''What the hell??!''

''What was that?!?''  
  
''Spread out!'' someone shouts, ''Now!!''  
  
''Get the merchandise, go go go!!!'' someone else barks.  
  
I see the guy running for the van, and drop him before he can get to the car door. His body falls back with a thud barely heard in the commotion.  
  
''Jesus Christ, get the van!!''  
  
''They're in here!! They're God damn in here!!!''  
  
Instinctively, I duck, all but kissing the floor. This is when the bullets start flying, and I'm hoping these fuckers get caught in some crossfire.  
  
Their panic lasts a short burst of bullets as the wood splinters all around me, but it seems like an eternity as I hold my breath. Then the lights come on again, this time from the cars.  
  
''Fucking hell!!''  
  
''Find this son of a bitch!!!''  
  
Jesus Christ, I just have to get to the van. Just get to the van and go.  
  
But the damn thing is right in the middle, out in the open. And they've spread out in search for me, and I can't be skulking in the shadows of these old crates for much longer than a few more seconds.  
  
''Come out, come out!'' someone taunts, spraying bullets in just about every direction. They're doing this to keep me pinned, but I have to keep moving.  
  
''Here, kitty, kitty!''  
  
Another short burst of bullets.  
  
I make a run for it.  
  
*  
  
_Pieces of concrete and wood and glass fly everywhere, covering us all like a blanket of heavy dust centuries old. It's hard to breathe, and when I do, it's as though I'm inhaling glass. Time stretches, like I've been here forever, like I will be here forevermore, like nothing else exists. I've always been in this room, I've always felt this pain. I don't hear the bullets, or the explosions in the distance. I don't hear the cries, either of fear or pain or mourning. All I hear is the blood pumping in my ears and someone calling my name far, far away._  
  
_''Julia!! Julia!!!''_  
  
_It slowly starts coming back to me, too slowly. I'm lying here, in a small pool of blood, because something bad has happened to me. It has to have. Is this my blood? I use all my strength to lift myself from it, uselessly wiping some from my brow with the back of an even bloodier hand. There's someone lying next to me, I realize, still as a statue. I don't know this young man's face, but I know the fear that's now forever etched into it. He's been ripped in half by the chunk of wall that ended up falling on top of him._  
  
_Then it all comes back at once. The panic. The realization that we've walked into a trap. The explosions, the pain, the fear. Someone is still calling my name._  
  
_''Julia!!!''_  
  
_I know that I am bleeding from somewhere - I must be - but I don't feel any pain except the kind that comes from labored breathing. I must have broken a few ribs, but that doesn't explain why blood is seeping from beneath my vest._  
  
_I grab one of the slabs of concrete, and lift. I see blood falling and staining it, and I know that it's coming from me. The noises start coming back, the yelling, the shooting, the screams of pain, and the urgency suddenly comes with it too._  
  
_''We have to get them out!'' I cry out, at no one in particular, at anyone who'll hear me, anyone that listens._  
  
_''We gotta go!'' someone grabs me by the arms, pulling me back, ''It's too late, we gotta go!''_  
  
_At first, I don't recognize Frank. His entire face is covered with thick, dark blood, and for a moment I don't know him. My first instinct is to fight, then flee._  
  
_''Hey! Hey! Look at me!'' he groans, shaking me, ''We gotta go! Now!''_  
  
_Next thing I know - I'm back at the base. I don't know when exactly it was that I'd lost consciousness - probably on the chopper - but what I do know is that now that I'm awake, I can't remember most of how I got here. I remember next to nothing of our fallback to the rendezvous point. I remember it in bits and pieces, like I've sleep-walked through most of it._

 _Then I remember what happened before shit hit the fan._  
  
_The scouting, the clean-up, the rescue, all in order. We'd cleared the building and reached the hostages as planned and on schedule. We didn't lose a single civilian, and we'd done it without casualties too. It was all going according to plan and as we'd expected, perfectly smoothly. The intel checked out._  
  
_A sharp sting in my side violently tears me away from my daze. Someone is cleaning one of my wounds, and the alcohol burns worse than ever._  
  
_''You gonna be alright, kid.''_  
  
_''Frank?''_  
  
_I turn to find him sitting on a chair next to me, still covered in blood that has by now dried up and fallen off his face in brownish patches. His face half-buried in his palms and his feet nervously dancing against the ground, he almost bursts with relief as it pushes through the worry once he sees I'm fully lucid._  
  
_''Did everybody-''_  
  
_''Don't you worry about that now, alright?'' he stops me, ''Everything's gonna be fine.''_  
  
_''Infirmary, now!'' someone shouts, before I'm quickly carried away, every movement a pain. I don't register faces, even as two guys are carrying my gurney and someone else is pressing against my wound. My mind is a whirlwind, and with another spin, blackness consumes me again._  
  
_Frank Castle is the first thing I see when next I wake up, again. All cleaned up this time around, but immensely, horribly tired._  
  
_''Hey,'' he starts with a small smile, before all but jumping to his feet to stop me from sitting up, ''Hey, hey, stop! Easy, alright?''_  
  
_I give up anyway, as soon as I feel the sharp pain between my ribs. There is a headache rampaging through my skull too that only recedes once I'm horizontal. I don't remember the last time I was beat up this bad._  
  
_''You look like shit, kid,'' Frank says, with that usual gruff voice of his that's somehow become one of my favorite sounds in the whole world._  
  
_''Yeah, that's just about how I feel, too,'' I groan, trying to make myself more comfortable, then remembering to ask, ''What the hell happened, Frank?''_  
  
_''What do you mean, what happened,'' he spits, that familiar anger flaring up inside him again, ''They played us like a bunch of dummies. Had us right where they wanted us.''_  
  
_''How? The intel-''_  
  
_''Bahh, what intel,'' he shakes his head, ''That shit was planted from the get go. I should have known. If it don't smell right, get out. I should have known.''_  
  
_''Jesus,'' I curse beneath my breath. I'm only now realizing how bad of a clusterfuck this whole thing was. It's only now coming to me how serious this is and just how probable death was._  
  
_''Yeah, well, good things is, most of us got out,'' Frank explains, ''Bad thing is, we can't go back for those who didn't.''_  
  
_''The hostages?''_  
  
_''We grabbed three,'' Frank says, ''Most of them didn't survive the blasts.''_  
  
_I remember the blood, and the body parts crushed beneath the concrete, impaled on metal. Me and Frank inside that room - we were insanely lucky._  
  
_''You got lucky,'' he says, as though reading my mind, ''That kid you were holding on to, I don't know how, but he threw you out of the way. The whole damn building collapsed right on top of us. We shouldn't be here, none of us.''_  
  
_Piercing sadness grips me. I want to cry for the people I never even knew. I want to cry for the nameless boy who saved my life. But I have nothing in me._  
  
_''How do you feel?'' Frank asks me, as though I can somehow get better over the course of twenty minutes._  
  
_''Like a truck ran me over,'' I reply, ''Not that I know what that feels like. I just assume it'd feel something like this.''_  
  
_Frank chuckles. ''Yeah, well... With three broken ribs, internal bleeding and two gaping flesh wounds, I'd say that's about right,'' he says with a small smile, ''You gotta be just about the toughest woman I've ever met.''_  
  
_''Wouldn't have gotten out of there without you,'' I tell him, ''You saved my ass, Frank.''_  
  
_''Yeah, I figured Billy would have my skin for a pouch if I didn't,'' he teases, and when I roll my eyes in response, he laughs._  
  
_''Get some sleep, Jules,'' he says before he walks out, ''Get you a phone later.''_  
  
*  
  
I managed to shoot two of them and slam one on our way out, but there's still too many of them left able to shoot, too many cars after me, too many bullets that have riddled the van. I'm badly bleeding from my shoulder and some of the girls are crying in panic at the back, and I can't focus. They're on us hot, and because I left O'Rourke standing, they won't just give up.  
  
The panic inside the vehicle is expressed in at least three different languages, and it's more than a moment too late that I realize one of the girls had gotten shot, and badly.  
  
''Press against the wound!'' I cry out, keeping my eyes on the road, ''Hold against her wound!''  
  
I don't know if they're listening to me, if they even understand English well, and I can't turn around to look. All I can glance at is the rearview mirror as I try to focus on losing our tail. At least the bullets have stopped flying so recklessly now that we're driving into the city.  
  
"Jesus Christ", I curse under my breath. With three different vehicles tailing me, every turn that I take is useless.  
  
''Anyone here American?!?'' I ask desperately, ducking instinctively as a bullet breaks the rearview window. One of the girls crawls up to me, a look of terror on her face smeared with blood. ''Can you drive?!''  
  
She nods.  
  
Quickly, yet as carefully as I can, I switch with the girl and hand her the wheel. Then I grab my rifle, and lean through the window.

Just as I aim, help comes from above.


	4. Chapter 4

''Who was that?!'' the American girl asks me frantically as she helps me deal with the wounded girl. My bed sheets are already soaking up the blood.  
  
''I don't know,'' I reply quickly, ordering the terrified girls around, ''I need you to hold her down. You too. Shoulders, legs. She can't kick.''  
  
''What do you mean, you don't know?'' the American girl insists, pressing down the wounded girl's shoulder, ''That guy helped you! Who the hell are you people?!''  
  
''We're the people that saved your God damn lives!'' I snap, ''Now hold her down so I can get the bullet out!!''  
  
The girl clearly has plenty more questions, as do the others, and frankly - so do I. But there's no time for any of them, and the girls choose to abide and quiet the hell down while I try to help this poor creature.  
  
Three of them help keep the wounded girl steady. When I pour vodka down her side, the girl cries out in agony, tears streaming down her face.  
  
''We should get her to a hospital,'' my new talkative friend urges me.  
  
''I'm sorry, what's your name?''  
  
''Amber,'' she tells me.  
  
''Well, Amber, your friend will be fine. It's not worth the risk for a flesh wound,'' I explain hectically, ''We just have to close it up before she loses any more blood.''  
  
''Can you do that?!'' she demands.  
  
''Just hold her still for me,'' I say, as I clean up the blood and finally move in with the tweezers.  
  
The bullet is stubborn and slippery and it fights me every step of the way, and by the time I finally reach it, the girl's screaming has long stopped. I'm grateful that she's blacked out, because it's going to be a lot easier to stitch her up.  
  
''Yuck,'' Amber makes a face when I drop the bullet inside a whiskey glass.  
  
''Yeah, you can say that again,'' I grumble, starting to stitch the wound together.  
  
The girls watch in complete silence as I work, the air around us stiff.  
  
*  
  
_''Where do you think you're going?'' I hear Billy before I can see him. When I turn over my shoulder, I see him leaning against the door-frame, hands in his pockets, in full uniform. He looks impeccable. Sometimes I think he was born to do this._  
  
_''What does it look like?'' I ask, zipping up my duffel bag, ''Packing and reporting for duty.''_  
  
_I hear his two strides against the wood of the floor, before he comes to press his chest against my back. I can feel his breath against my neck as he reaches around me and grabs the bag from my hands._  
  
_''You're not going anywhere,'' he says, softly._  
  
_''Billy-''_  
  
_''No,'' he presses his lips against my temple, before he lets go and steps back, ''I don't need you there. It'll only distract me. I need to be focused, not worried and stressed out.''_  
  
_''Billy-,'' I want to argue again, but he won't let me._  
  
_''I need you here,'' he says, pushing my duffel bag back into the closet, ''I want you to watch over everything. The accounts, everything. There's no one else I trust more.''_  
  
_I sigh. It feels wrong to stay back, to let him shoulder this on his own._  
  
_''Billy, if I get to reap the benefits, then I have to pull my weight,'' I tell him, ''You know I can't let you do this on your own.''_  
  
_''You won't,'' he smiles as he approaches me again, placing his hands gently on my arms, ''You're helping me by staying here. I can relax knowing everything's going as it should be back home.''_  
  
_I sigh. He rubs my arms comfortingly, and places a kiss on my forehead._  
  
_''When I come back, it will be the last time I do,'' he says, lifting my chin so he can look me in the eyes, ''And when I do... I want you to be here. No more drawers and back-up toothbrushes, alright? No more running around in circles, and no more Frank nagging me about settling down.''_  
  
_I laugh out loud despite myself, and Billy can't help but grin at me._  
  
_''Not that I'll tell him,'' he jokes, ''I like to annoy him with the whole sharing the wealth thing.''_  
  
_''Billy,'' I start, and this time his grin is wiped away immediately at my change of demeanor._  
  
_''What is it?'' he asks, a twinge of worry in his voice._  
  
_''Frank-''_  
  
_''You know he wouldn't understand,'' he tells me what I already know, for what seems like the millionth time, ''It's better that he doesn't know anything.''_  
  
_''I'm afraid he'll figure it out-''_  
  
_''He won't,'' Billy cuts in._  
  
_''If he does,'' I insist, ''Billy, that in itself is not what troubles me. What fucks me up is making him be a part of something I know he wouldn't want to be a part of.''_  
  
_''No one's making him, Julia,'' Billy argues, ''He wants to go. He's had every opportunity and excuse to stay at home, and I've done everything I can to keep him out of this. You know this-''_  
  
_''I know,'' I sit on the bed, burying my face in my palms, ''I know, I just- I wish I could do something to keep him home. It's gnawing at me.''_  
  
_Billy approaches me tentatively, kneeling before me, and removes my hands from my face. ''Hey, he won't know,'' he tells me, ''I'll watch his back out there, and he'll come home safe and none the wiser. Okay?''_  
  
_''Okay,'' I nod reluctantly. Billy gives me a loving smile, cups my face, and places a kiss on my lips._  
  
*  
  
I watch the IV drip into the sleeping girl's vein, and I'm grateful that it proved a good decision to always have a few of those around. All the medical supplies I have here were always meant for me, most kept for a rainy day, but I've had the good fortune not to need most of it. I've always tried to play smart, but it would be foolish to think there hasn't been an equal amount of luck involved. This girl had almost run out of hers last night.  
  
Her name is Nataliya, as Amber's told me. Russian, like most of the girls. They don't talk much, except among themselves, and truthfully, I don't think that any of them actually speak any English. I assume they understand all the basics, but I still can't imagine how terrified they all must feel stolen away and abused in a country so far away where no one seems to understand them.  
  
I try to talk to them, but my Russian has deteriorated over the years, and truthfully - it never was that good to begin with. I don't find out much, and Amber and Rachel don't seem to know much else either, so I decide not to push them, at least for now. They're traumatized enough as they are, so the least I can do is give them my food and shelter and let them rest for the time being.  
  
They sleep on the bed, other pieces of furniture and on the floor, and I know they can't stay here for long. Not just because my apartment doesn't have enough space, but because it's risky, for all of us, and I have to think of what to do next. They've escaped, but O'Rourke is still out there, and he knows my face, and he'll come after me. That's a problem for another day - right now, I need to figure out how to get these girls home, or at least the next safest place.  
  
Amber and Rachel are the only Americans, both from halfway across the country. Amber, the ever talkative blonde that can't be over sixteen, is from California. I could have guessed that. Rachel, on the other hand, comes from all the way up north in Minnesota. The two of them will be the easy part.  
  
From my spot on the window, I watch the girls sleep, strewn about. They look peaceful, like this is the first bit of proper sleep they've had in years. I can't bring myself to think of how long they've been trapped for or what horrors they've endured. They're all just kids, from sixteen to eighteen years old tops, with Nataliya surely the youngest. The thoughts make me sick.  
  
Nataliya, at least, seems to have stabilized. The IV is replenishing what she has lost, and her vitals are strong again. She was lucky. If she'd moved an inch, the bullet would have torn through half her internal organs. She would have died in that van, and I would have had no idea what to do with her body. I would have probably had to leave her behind, just to keep the other girls going.  
  
We've all been lucky, me most of all. The scene keeps replaying in my mind's eye over and over and over again, and I just can't seem to understand. Whoever the good Samaritan was, that caliber of his tearing through the gas tank of the car behind us might have just saved our lives. If not for that one moment the mysterious helper had bought us, we might have never gotten away.  
  
But we did. The car tailing us was set ablaze quickly, but the fires didn't come at once. I saw it - saw the car get hit, saw the panic in it as the vehicle screeched to a halt - and I just screamed at Amber to hit the gas, knowing what was coming. I could feel the heat of the explosion even as we drove away, the vibrations almost strong enough to topple us over even at our distance.  
  
The rest was easy once we'd lost the main tail. I knew exactly the place and exactly the vehicle. Once we did the switch, there was no way of them getting a hold of us again, at least for the time being.  
  
Yet, the question keeps popping up - _who was that, on the rooftop_? The only person that could possibly know where I am and that may ever decide to help me would be Billy - but it can't be him, can it? Was it truly someone coming to help me, or was it just another enemy of O'Rourke, that decided to use the chance? Somehow, the latter seems more likely. O'Rourke has no shortage of enemies, and I can't deny that I'm all but alone in this world.  
  
Nataliya opens her eyes. At first, it slips past my notice, but then she makes this sound - this almost panicked wheeze - accompanying a face full of terror. She has no idea where she is.  
  
''Hey! Hey, it's alright,'' I shush her, approaching her ever so tentatively, ''It's alright, you're safe.''  
  
She looks around, eyes wide, brows furrowed, scanning the place quickly, then looking at the IV drip in her arm. Carefully, I step further toward her, hands up front where she can see them.  
  
''You're safe,'' I repeat quietly, slowly sitting on the bed next to her, ''You're okay now.''  
  
''Where am I?'' she asks, her voice groggy and her Slavic accent quite noticeable.  
  
''It's, um, my apartment,'' I huff, motioning toward the mess we've made, ''You're still in New York, if that's what you're asking.''  
  
''Alina, Maria-''  
  
''The girls are all here,'' I calm her down quickly, ''I can't quite catch who is who, but they're all sleeping. I promise they're okay.''  
  
''But- How,'' she starts, clearly unable to comprehend the fact that she's finally free, ''What happened? Why- why did you-?''  
  
''What matters is that you're safe and that I'll get you home,'' I tell her quietly, ''I don't know how yet, but I will. You can't stay here, it's not safe. O'Rourke will come for me.''  
  
''He will,'' she nods, tears gathering in her eyes and her jaw quivering so suddenly now that I'm almost taken aback, ''He will.''  
  
''Hey, calm down, don't cry,'' I tell her, ''I can handle O'Rourke. What's important is that you won't be around when I do.''  
  
''You don't understand,'' Nataliya shakes her head, tears streaming down her face now, ''The girls, the Russian girls... we're not the merchandise.''  
  
''What do you mean?''  
  
''It's the drugs,'' she sniffles, ''They- They're inside us.''  
  
*  
  
_''Well, I'm glad you've stayed behind for once,'' Maria tells me with a smile as she sets up the dining table, ''Finally, I can complain to someone who understands.''_  
  
_''Yeah, well, it feels odd to be on this side of things,'' I admit, placing some of the plates, ''I never knew it could be this nerve-wrecking.''_  
  
_''Says the woman that does the fighting,'' Maria smirks, now going to check the oven._  
  
_''It's strange, isn't it?'' I say, pulling out the glasses, ''It's almost... harder.''_  
  
_Maria peeks at me over her shoulder, shooting me an inquisitive look._  
  
_''I can't really explain it,'' I admit, ''When you're out there, fighting... You're scared, but it's an instinct. You're not really thinking, it's like your body is driving you on its own. Nothing else exists other than the task of getting through the day. Here, waiting at home for someone you care about to finish the fighting... here, all you ever do is think.''_  
  
_''Welcome to my world,'' she says, finally pulling out the turkey. The rich smell fills my nostrils and makes my stomach rumble._  
  
_''Lisa!!!'' I call, hearing them almost tumble down the stairs, ''Frank!!!!''_  
  
_''I want to tell you that it gets easier,'' Maria tells me, pulling off the mitten and placing a hand on my arm, ''But it doesn't, really. You just learn to live with the agony of it. After a while, you can almost pretend you don't notice it.''_  
  
_I don't get to reply to that, before the kids come down bearing chaos, Lisa already complaining about Frank not letting her play some silly video game. I don't catch half of what they're saying, but the noise brings me comfort, the sounds of a full home that I haven't heard for so so long making me feel like everything might just be okay in the end after all. For a moment, I wonder if Billy and I could have this. Neither of us would ever leave again._  
  
_Maria had insisted on me coming over for Thanksgiving, as soon as she'd heard I wasn't leaving for Kandahar. It would be just the four of us - she didn't need anyone else this year, she'd said. For some reason, I felt the same. I'd called my family in Michigan and told them I'd be a few days late. There was this feeling of necessity, like I'd absolutely had to spend this holiday with the Castles. There was an emptiness that both Maria and I felt that we needed to fill, and though neither of us spoke about it, we both knew it, felt it, in the air almost. It created a sort of kinship, something to tether us stronger to reality. It's almost working, too._  
  
_The dinner is nothing but good food and laughter. Time flies when you're having fun, they say, but I catch myself stretching moments, trying to savor them. The kids are gone off to play their game as soon as they're full, leaving the mess to me and Maria. We don't complain, with all the wine that we have. We share stories, and laugh, and try our damnest not to talk about Frank and Billy too much with this much alcohol inside us._  
  
_''I've always admired you, you know. For what you do,'' Maria tells me out of nowhere, filling up the last of the dishwasher, ''Your strength. I mean, I don't know about you but I don't know many other women in any special forces,'' she smiles._  
  
_''Yeah, I suppose it is odd,'' I admit, ''Wouldn't exactly consider it too admirable, though.''_  
  
_''And why not, mind you?'' she frowns, demanding, ''That's an incredible feat to achieve. You have to be... one strong lady indeed, to go and do what you do.''_  
  
_''I didn't sign up because I was strong,'' I tell her honestly, ''I signed up because I was just about the most fragile person I'd ever known. And I was sick of it. I just couldn't be that person anymore.''_  
  
_''You know, most people would just start going to the gym,'' she grins._  
  
_I laugh. ''Yeah. That was part of the package.''_  
  
_''It is admirable,'' she insists, leading us back to the living room, ''I mean, I can get angry at Frank all I want, but I know I wouldn't have fallen in love with him if he was anything else than the person he is. What you do is important. It makes this world a better place.''_  
  
_''Sometimes,'' I say, something twisting in the pit of my stomach, ''Sometimes it's all just for someone's greed.''_  
  
*  
  
After crying for about good twenty minutes, Nataliya's calmed down again, somehow without waking the other girls. Every now and then, she hiccups, and gives me a worried look as I pace around quietly. Her breakdown's given me some time to quickly think through what to do about this new development. It doesn't change much, except that they all probably need real medical attention, and soon. Whatever crap it is that's inside them, it's probably in large enough doses to kill them if it gets compromised.  
  
''Thank you,'' the girl sniffles quietly after a while, which wakes me from my thoughts, ''I never thanked you. I don't know who you are, but-''  
  
''You're welcome,'' I say, ''Nataliya, right?''  
  
''Yes,'' she sniffles again, ''And you?''  
  
''Julia,'' I reply, ''Well, Yulia, if you ask my father.''  
  
''Russian?'' she blinks.  
  
''I was born American,'' I explain, ''But yeah.''

''That has to be complicated,'' she huffs, and it gets a genuine laugh out of me.

''You got that right,'' I chuckle, then remember to carefully ask her, ''When did you-?''  
  
''Two years ago,'' she cuts me off, swallowing, knowing what I want to know. Her answer gives me another wave of nausea, and I feel that I need to sit down again.  
  
''I'm sorry you had to go through that,'' I say, sitting down next to her, not even wanting to think of what she could have gone through in two years time, ''Do you have any family, back home-?''  
  
''Yeah,'' she swallows back some tears, ''My parents, younger brother. They live just outside of Moscow-''  
  
''Do you think they'll still be there?''  
  
''Probably,'' she replies, and I can see that she's trying to stop herself from crying again, ''They don't know what happened to me.''  
  
''You haven't cried in a while, huh,'' I tell her, feeling a sharp pain in my chest, like a knife twisting in my heart. She looks like she's releasing all of her trauma at once. She shakes her head in response.  
  
''Do you think you could find out where each of the girls' homes are?'' I ask her.  
  
''Yeah,'' she nods, ''But we can't- We can't go. Not without passports and- and with the drugs-''  
  
''You leave that part to me,'' I say, pulling out my phone, searching for the name of Billy Russo again, even as every fiber of my being is screaming against it.  
  
''Thank you, again,'' Nataliya stutters again among the hiccups, ''I don't know how to-''  
  
''No need to thank me,'' I tell her, not really paying her too much mind anymore as I'm dreading the phone call I'm about to make.  
  
''What, because you're just doing your job? You're clearly not,'' she argues, ''Who are you, really?''  
  
''Just someone trying to help,'' I sigh, ''Don't think about it too much.''  
  
''Well, in that case,'' she says, ''What you're doing is- how do you say it? Admirable.''  
  
My blood freezes as the words echo through my memories. An inexplicable cold settles into my bones, as I press the 'call' button and leave the room.  
  
Time to call an old friend and right a wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

Anvil looks much like the last time I saw it, only largely improved. Billy's been busy, not just expanding training grounds and getting state-of-the-art equipment - there have to be at least three times as many recruits as there were the last time I walked out of this place.

Money makes money. Tale as old as time.

The receptionist tries to make a bit of a fuss, but Billy comes out of his office to greet me himself. When I see him, my heart stops.

At first, it's like muscle memory. My body reacts the way its used to - with warmth and affection and a wave of nostalgia that suddenly threatens to suffocate me. My whole body wants to wrap itself around him; my hands want nothing but to touch the most familiar face I've ever known.

But that lasts only a moment. It's gone quicker than it came, and I'm left standing before a person I might not even know. My heart steps away and my brain takes over - I haven't seen Billy in so long, and so much has happened since the last time we were together; I have to know that he may not be the same person I walked away from.

He looks near flawless in his three-piece suit and fresh hair-cut, luxury wafting off of him. For a moment I wonder if the watch on his wrist could actually buy an apartment in Queens. Suddenly, I'm grateful for the way I'd decided to dress. This is a battle of a sorts, too - and being under-dressed would have cost me the first line of defense.

He smiles for a moment, and it seems genuine, but it's gone quickly. ''I never thought I'd see you here again,'' he shrugs, hands in his pockets. The sound of his voice sends a wave of electricity through my body.

''I was sure I'd never step foot in this place again, too,'' I reply, ''But life is strange like that.''

Billy smirks, then leads me into his office. The sound of my heels clicking echoes through the hallway. The pain in my left shoulder pulsates excruciatingly - as fresh bullet-wounds do. I try my best to ignore it and not let it show.

He motions toward a chair, then sits at his desk across from me, reaching for the bottle of whiskey. Filling up the two glasses, he slides one over to me without a word. I accept it - if anything, it might dull some of the pain.

''So what brings you here?'' he asks me, ''There's no way you're here just to see me. After all this time of trying to reach out to you-''

''Why?'' I interrupt him.

''Excuse me?''

''Why have you been trying to reach out to me?'' I ask, ''I'm here now; I'm listening.''

Billy takes a moment, like he's taken aback and just outraged enough at the same time. He scoffs, then takes a good sip of the whiskey.

''Forget about it,'' he shakes his head, putting the glass down.

My heart hurts instantly. I know what he wants to say. That he never did anything without my approval first. That I'd agreed on everything. That he'd left for Kandahar, and when he came back, I'd decided that I couldn't live with it after all. That he didn't do anything I hadn't known he would, and yet I didn't see him the same way anymore. He came back, and instead of us finally starting what we said we would, I ran. I disappeared.

I know exactly what he wants to say. He wants to say a lot - but telling me to forget about it is much easier.

''You've done a lot with this company,'' I tell him instead, changing the topic, ''It's impressive, Billy.''

''It was supposed to be our company,'' he says, taunts almost, ''But I've managed.''

''Well, you definitely don't look like you need any help,'' I ignore the jab.

''Why are you here, Julia?'' he suddenly leans over the desk, studying my eyes, ''Let's cut the small talk, you don't have to bullshit me.''

I want to tell him that I'm not bullshitting him, not completely, at least. I want to tell him that I _have_ missed him, despite all of it. That I'm sorry if I've broken his heart, but I've broken mine as well, and what we did broke me completely. It really is good to see him, in some twisted old way. And I wish I could turn back time and spend just one day with him before any of this crap ever happened.

But I don't tell him any of it.

''I need your help,'' I admit.

''Does it have something to do with the fact that you got shot?''

I stop myself from cursing, but my face says it all. _Damn it._ Of course he'd be able to tell.

I take another sip of the whiskey, this time a large one.

''Exactly what kind of trouble are you in?'' he asks again.

''Not in a Carson Wolf sized one, that's for sure,'' I retort, ''At least, not for now.''

''This is not funny, Jules,'' he hisses, leaning over the table to wrap his hand around my wrist, ''Who shot at you?''

His grasp is as gentle as it is firm, showing nothing but worry clouded in fury. For a moment, I'm surprised - even if Billy feels something akin to worry, he will always hide it. Even when we were together, he would never show it directly. I could tell his worry only through his subtle actions and words, the ones that escaped his own notice. This slip-up is unlike him, and for the millionth time makes me question everything.

''Nobody important,'' I reply, pulling my hand back, ''No one to worry about.''

''Then what is this?'' he asks, scowling, ''What exactly are you doing?''

''I'm doing what I do best,'' I snap, ''You don't have to know the details. If you're willing to help me, then do it. But don't act like you have the right to any answers pertaining to my life.''

''Jesus Christ,'' Billy chuckles - almost laughs - spitefully, ''Working outside the law, huh. Smart. Real smart, Julia. A class act for someone of your rank, too.''

''You're the one to talk,'' I scoff, immediately grabbing my bag, ''I mean, alright. See you never, I suppose-''

''Hey, hey, stop,'' he grabs my arm again, just as I get up, and this time with an almost apologetic look on his face, ''Just sit down, alright? We'll talk.''

Frozen mid-sit in an awkward position and with Billy's hand latched onto my elbow, I'm truly reconsidering it. My shoulder throbs, as though in warning. Maybe all of this was just a really, really bad idea.

''You came all the way here... I know what it took,'' he admits, ''So just sit down and tell me what's going on.''

I give in.

*

_A lot of the men that serve with me would die for me, and I'd lie if I said I wouldn't jump in front of a bullet for any single one of them. It's a scary, but simple truth. In the end, that's what keeps us alive, I think. We don't fight for an ideology or a country or a god or some guy in charge - at the end of the day, we fight for each other._

_That's why greedy men have been able to send youth off to die for millennia. Being a part of a unit does something to you, and it's inexplicable. Half of these men I wouldn't even look at twice if we'd met in the real world, and hell - some of them I'd actively cross the street to avoid. But when you fight alongside someone, it creates a bond you can't escape, and it's a bond that lasts a lifetime._

_I've known some of these men for years, and I've been fortunate enough to be with them in the same unit consistently over the course of the past couple of tours. But there are a lot of new faces this time around too - there always are. And I'd have to be blind not to see the way they look at me, and deaf not to hear the way they talk about me._

_It's normal. It started off this way even with the men I today call my brothers. We can pretend all we want that things have changed, but just because women are officially allowed in combat now doesn't mean the disdain for women is suddenly gone. I'd have to be naive to ever let my guard down, even after all these years._

_My training's prepared me for this too. It wasn't so bad back at JFK School, but once I dared be ambitious enough to try and graduate as a Ranger, I'd learned all I needed to know about women in the military. The training's hard enough even without the added bullying and sexual innuendos, and once the other women started dropping out, quitting was a real temptation for me. In the end, me and Kristen Lange were the only women that graduated, and I remember thinking that if that school hadn't made me quit, nothing will ever even make me consider. That was not only false, but naive to even conceive of. I can think of a million times I wanted to quit after that, and my short time at COP Keating has to be the best contender._

_Yet this is my life, and as much as I hate it at times, I wouldn't want it any other way. I know what I'm made of. I know how fucked up that means I am. But I also know that if I quit, I would only ever want to come back. I wouldn't be able to say why. I have no idea why the fighting keeps me coming back for more. If I'd continued seeing my therapist, maybe I would have found out. But I cannot be dishonest with myself and lie that this isn't where I want to be._

_Afghanistan is always fucking hot. Jesus Christ, but this place never lets up. Here in the south, even winter is like a hot spring day. If possible, folks will rise early to finish up as much as they can before the sun is at its highest, then drop everything until it's back down again, but we're not always that lucky or relaxed. The training must be done either way, and respective duties must be performed. Even if it's 50 degrees Celsius out there, if my tired ass has to patrol the mountainsides in full gear and uniform, then patrol it must._

_Today has been a good day though, for a change. I guess sometimes a girl just gets lucky. Not only have I had a day off (meaning off duty, not off training), but I've also managed to get an afternoon nap in there. Yet, having been exhausted for so long, getting a minimum amount of decent sleep feels like an overflow of energy now, so here I am again, getting rid of the adrenaline, running miles into midnight._

_I've always loved doing my running at night. Not only because it's as peaceful and as quiet as it's ever going to get, but because it's the best way to get me to actually sleep. A lot of people don't know the subtle horrors of living in a combat outpost, and sleeping is one of them. Especially if you're stationed in a particularly bad area - your body is constantly producing so much adrenaline that, even if you're asleep, you might as well not be. Most soldiers get used to such high levels of stress, but I've known some that had developed severe insomnia and were discharged because of how bad the problem was. If you ask me, insomnia might be better than this shitty ass excuse for sleep - at least you know where you stand._

_I've been running circles around base, careful not to stray too far off. So far I haven't heard anything beside the breeze and the birds and the quiet sounds of folks still awake at base, but you never know when the enemy is lurking in the dark. If there's one thing they're good at, it's skulking in the shadows._

_The feeling of tiredness seeping into my muscles is lovely, and I welcome it. Another mile, I tell myself, and it will surely knock me out until five in the morning. Seeing as I'm almost done, I dare put my headphones on and blast my workout playlist, taking another turn for the last lap. I deserve to enjoy this one - damn it, but I've earned it._

_Even through the crappy hip hop in my ears, I can hear someone running somewhere behind me. Turning over my shoulder, I see another soldier in the distance, and at first I think it's Billy, coming to keep me company, but then I realize the stature is all wrong. I don't see who it is, but it doesn't matter. With the space I'm keeping between us, I'll be in bed before he finishes the lap._

_It all happens at once, really, and it doesn't occur to me at all that this was orchestrated and premeditated when I'm snatched up behind the barracks and thrown into the dry grass, mouth covered. For a while I don't even register that it's Rowan, the guy that's been looking at me weird but was never stupid enough to be openly hostile. It all comes to me a moment too late, when he hits me so hard that my ears start buzzing._

_I recover quickly, biting his hand hard enough that it draws blood. Does he think I'll scream and call for help? Does he think he's the first soldier in the history of the military that's decided to assault a woman he's serving with? He has an advantage on top of me, and so he hits me again, this time making me taste blood. My headphones get torn out and the music starts blasting through the speaker instead. He gets nervous because of this, and I catch the moment and headbutt him strong enough to disorient him for a second, flipping us over. Then I start punching._

_It doesn't last long before he gathers himself and re-takes his advantage, even as I leave him bruised and bloody. He is bigger and stronger, after all, and that will always trap you. When he flips us back, he hits me harder, and as I slip in and out I realize that I can't let him do what he is obviously trying to do - and that is to render me unconscious._

_I'm beat up and tired now, and my defense is slowly turning into nothing but sloppy wiggling, even as he's tearing at my clothes. The sound of some summer hit from three years ago sounds like nothing but an indiscernible buzzing noise to me, and all I can think of is the knife in my boot. Rowan's already ripped my jacket off and the tank top is next, and all I'm doing now is straining to reach that damn holster._

_The weight on me disappears so suddenly that it shocks me. Rowan all but flies off of me, landing in the grass three feet away. I don't realize that it's Billy until he's already on top of Rowan, beating him to a pulp._

_''Piece of shit!!!'' I hear Billy growl through the struggle, but I can't quite fathom it._

_It takes me a moment to gather myself, to realize what's just happened. I check my body first, and see that nothing's damaged except the jacket that's now torn to pieces lying in the grass. I wipe the blood off my mouth, and spit out the remainder. Slowly, I get up. Then, as I pull out the knife, everything comes to me at once._

_''Billy!'' I call, ''Billy, stop!!!'' But he won't, and when I reach them, Rowan is completely unrecognizable._

_''I said stop!!!'' I screech, pushing him off. Billy almost falls back into the grass, but gathers himself at the last moment, hands drenched in blood, face sprinkled, eyes wide with hatred. Rowan is out cold, and I instantly realize that he has been for a while now._

_''Are you crazy?!?'' I shriek at Billy, dropping my knife, punching him in the chest, ''Are you fucking crazy?!?''_

_''Are you fucking crazy?!??'' he shouts back, flailing his hands in the air almost like a madman, ''Huh?!?? Running around on your own, like you're in the God damn Hamptons!!!''_

_''Fuck you, Billy! I can do whatever the fuck I want!'' I almost scream, pushing him away again, ''And I don't need you to defend me, oh mighty William Russo!!! Jesus Christ, I can take care of mys-!''_

_''Yeah, I saw that just now!!!!'' he spits and cuts me off, wiping his face with the back of his hand, which only makes it bloodier, ''Get real, Julia!!!!''_

_''Oh fuck off,'' I hiss, rubbing my eyes just so I don't use my hands to smack him, ''You must be some other kind of stupid. Jesus Christ, you could have killed him-''_

_''And so-?!'' Billy yells again, ''You think someone's gonna mourn this piece of shit-?!?''_

_''Billy, you would go to jail,'' I growl through my teeth, as calmly as I can manage, ''And I hope to God this piece of shit is okay, because I don't want you to lose your life over an asshole like this.''_

_He swallows back whatever he was going to say, then calms down a little bit, looking away. I kneel next to Rowan, and check his pulse. ''We need to get him some help,'' I say._

_''Are you okay?'' Billy asks._

_''I'm fine,'' I reply, without turning to look at him._

_''Hey,'' he insists, kneeling down next to me, looking me in the eyes, ''Are you okay?''_

_''I'm fine, Billy. I promise,'' I tell him, ''He did nothing but give me a few punches. Well, that, and ruin my uniform.''_

_Billy stops for a moment, swallows something, then just pulls me into him, burying my face into his chest. I don't fight it - for a moment, I enjoy it, clutching at his shirt. Then I pull back._

_''Hey. You're looking at a woman that would have gotten through BUD/S if not for a bad knee,'' I try to lighten the mood, ''Really, I'm fine. But we need to get this idiot some help and you need to let me do the talking. Alright?''_

_He nods, reluctantly. I can't help but kiss his cheek. ''And thank you,'' I say._

_''Thought you said you didn't need my help,'' he says, helping me get Rowan up off the ground._

_''Well, I didn't. I don't. But I'm still thankful,'' I reply as we drag him up and sling his arms over our shoulders, ''I fight my own battles, Billy. I mean it.''_

_''And I'm telling you I don't care,'' he replies, as we drag the bloody man away, ''I'm always gonna come running anyway.''_

*

''Great,'' Billy nods, processing all the information I've given him, ''That's great.''

''Look, I know it's nothing for you,'' I argue, ''A couple of passports and a doctor out of practice - I know you have that shit on speed-dial.''

''That's not the point,'' Billy shakes his head, ''This guy, he'll come for you. He'll wanna track you down and take back his money, and he's probably on his way as we speak.''

''That won't be a problem,'' I insist, ''I just need some help for these girls, that's all.''

''Shit,'' Billy curses, before getting up to reach for something in one of his fancy lockers. I don't realize I'm bleeding through my dress shirt until I see that he's pulled out a first aid kit. That makes me look down at my shoulder, and I echo him.

''Shit,'' I spit under my breath, unbuttoning a couple of buttons to reach the wound with a couple of wipes, as though that will do something.

''Who stitched you up?'' he asks, putting the kit on the desk in front of me and rummaging through it.

''Me?'' I reply, to which he gives me a look. I know it can't have been a good job at this angle and with an exit wound, but I did the best that I could.

''Well, knowing you, you won't be seeing any doctors, and you're not gonna wanna bother Curtis, so,'' he asks more than says, motioning toward the shoulder.

I sigh in defeat. I don't want him near me, I don't want him to help me with _this_ , but I'm bleeding through my clothes and my shirt is ruined and he's right. I won't be calling Curtis and I'll probably just try to re-do the stitches myself. That won't be doing me any favors.

I shrug out of the shirt.

He gets to working immediately. He's done this a million times, both to others and himself - as most of us have - so watching him tend to the wound is like watching him fall back into an old habit, like he's working on automatic. Somehow, I don't mind being in a bra in front of him, and not just because he's seen me in less countless times. Not only has he stitched me up before, but he's seen me in states unspeakably worse than this. There's no feeling of novelty.

I hiss when he cleans the wound with alcohol, then collect myself. I can tell he's being as gentle as he can as he sits on the desk and carefully cuts and removes my crappy stitches. I relax, not even thinking about the fact that I trust him completely, never minding his closeness because of how familiar it feels.

''You're smarter than this, Julia,'' he shakes his head as he reaches for the needle, ''You know you are.''

''I know what I'm doing,'' I reply, then bite on air immediately as Billy pulls the thread through my skin.

''Whatever it is you think you're doing,'' he says, carefully pulling the thread through again, ''It'll cost you your head if you keep going like this. You know no one lasts long working on their own.''

''Yeah, well, you would know all about that, wouldn't you,'' I bite, wanting to curse in both pain and anger.

''Maybe taunting me isn't the smartest idea while I'm digging through your flesh, Jules,'' he quips, cutting off the last of the stitches.

''Do your worst then,'' I say, ''I dare you.''

He doesn't reply - instead, he puts some iodine on top for good measure, then applies the bandage. He then takes the scissors, and moves on to the exit wound.

''Does this happen often?'' he asks instead.

''Why do you care?''

''Believe it or not, I don't want you to die,'' he replies, cutting the stitches in the back.

''Oh, is that why you've been keeping tabs on me?'' I ask, ''Or is it because you wanna make sure I don't talk too much?''

''Can't it be both?'' he asks.

''I thought you said I was the person you trust the most,'' I argue, seeing him reach for the needle again.

''You were,'' he argues, and I try to ignore the new wave of pain as best as I can, ''But then you ran on me. Didn't know what to think anymore. Still don't.''

I want to tell him that he should know that I wouldn't betray him - if nothing, then just because of what we once had. But I don't say anything, and instead power through the pain in silence with gritted teeth.

Billy does the same with the exit wound - iodine, then a bandage patch.

''I suppose I can't persuade you to quit this shit,'' he says, sitting back and wiping his hands with alcohol wet wipes. I pull my shirt back on.

''Thank you, for this,'' I motion toward my shoulder, ''But I am not the one that needs to be helped. These girls are. I'm their only shot. And it's gonna be hell of a lot harder if you don't give me a hand.''

He rubs the scowl on his face then goes around to sit back into his chair.

''I'll need a couple of days for the passports,'' he says.

''What about a doctor?'' I urge him.

''I can get you some help tomorrow, but you're telling me there's at least six of them,'' he says, ''That's gonna take a couple of days too.''

''They might not have a couple of days-!''

''What you need to do is move them some place safe,'' he argues, ''As a matter of fact, _you_ need to move, permanently. And not just because of this shit.''

''It's been a month since Carson Wolf,'' I argue, ''No one's coming, Billy.''

''You might be right,'' he says, ''But I don't want you to be alone if they do.''

''I can take care of m-''

''Don't give me that bullshit again,'' he cuts me off, ''You know there's always a place for you at Anvil. At least until we're sure this thing's blown over.''

I pull my jacket on. It's a warm day today, but I have to cover the blood.

''I'll think about it, Billy,'' I lie, grabbing my bag and getting up, ''Just call me.''


	6. Chapter 6

_It's against all the gods' laws on this good Earth to become involved with someone you're bloody serving with. That's just about common sense, even if there were no rules for it. To most people, obviously, this doesn't pose a problem. But I suppose Billy and I have never really been most people._

_I remember the first time we met, years ago, at Fort Hamilton - right before we were to go on our first tour. Well, ''met'' is a strong word, I suppose - we'd walked by each other about a million times, sparing each other nothing past a curious glance here and there. I didn't think anything of him, and I'm sure as all hell that he didn't think anything of me. We had nothing in common except for the fact that we had to crash at the same base for a couple of days before deployment. And not even ten days later, we were thrown into a desert together. Slowly, then all at once, everything changed._

_It's silly to think about that now. It's been years since we were those strangers, and so much has happened since then. We've all changed so much - this war has broken us and put us back together countless times - and I can't even recognize the two people in my memories anymore. My best friend can't be that cold stranger from Fort Hamilton. I can't be that clueless, stubborn girl that went head first into the wrong war. We've both gone such a long way to come to where we are right now, and where we are is nothing but a slippery slope of whims and nerves._

_When I really think about it, we've been doing this dance for just about as long as I can remember, Billy and I. I've been careful not to mess it up, flawlessly following every step of the choreography, throughout it all. We're always too close to crossing that invisible line between us and stepping on each other's toes. Sometimes, I want to leave all common sense behind and stumble and fall over it head first. I know that, sometimes, I will look into his eyes for a second too long and be one foolish moment away from ruining everything, the whole waltz. It's usually at times like tonight, when we have some time to ourselves, so I mostly know what to watch out for._

_With a sigh, I drop the useless thinking and check my side-arm, before I go look for Billy at the bar, where he said he'd be waiting for me. Nights ''off'' like this are a rare thing, and the rotation falling on the two of us even more so. We'll be going home soon anyway - a couple of days more and he's out. I'll have another two weeks to go after that, but at least I'll have Curtis around with me._

_I find Billy exactly where he said he'd be, sitting on the exact spot I expected he would. With his back toward me and two beers in front of him, he's sitting at the bar and staring at the TV in the upper corner, as though his Arabic is good enough for him to catch even half of the news. The place is otherwise empty. Billy looks like he's already at home - relaxed, peaceful. If I tuned out the TV and the greens we're wearing, this little bar we have could almost pass for one of Hell's Kitchen's finest._

_''Hey,'' I say, drawing his attention away from the TV. He turns around, and smiles when he sees me, eyes lighting up._

_''You're here,'' he says, ''Thought you passed out after all.''_

_''Would that make me the first girl that's stood up the ever handsome Billy Russo?'' I grin, teasing him, and find my place on the stool next to him. The beer is so cold when I touch it that I'm tempted to just press it against my neck. The night is warmer and more humid than usual, and I can't wait to breathe the stench of NYC again._

_''Maybe,'' Billy smirks as I take a sip, ''Maybe not. It'd be the first time it hurts, though.''_

_''Aww, aren't you a talker,'' I squint at him, making him laugh, ''Don't worry, I'm not tired enough to hurt you like that.''_

_''I'm leaving tomorrow night,'' he suddenly says as he peels the sticker off his beer bottle, his smile fading just enough for me to read him._

_''Thought you were supposed to go at the end of the week,'' I say, ''That's amazing.''_

_''Yeah,'' he nods, but a tiny sigh escapes him, ''I mean, it's weird, when I'm here, all I ever want is to get my ass home. And then, when the time comes, it's like-''_

_''I know,'' I tell him, ''It's strange. And the first few days when you get home are the worst. It's like you can't find your footing.''_

_''Yeah,'' he agrees, ''But you have family, friends... You have a lot to go back to, don't you?''_

_The cold beer in my throat almost makes me choke. Billy rarely talks like this - rarely even touches upon the subject. He doesn't just show his vulnerabilities. I know he carries this with him all the time, and I know that hiding it behind the facade he never tears down must be exhausting. My heart breaks for him, it always has. But he's also incredibly ignorant and oblivious._

_''So do you,'' I tell him. He just looks at me, eyes glistening with something I can't quite discern. I can't resist the urge to touch him, but he beats me to it when he interlaces his fingers with mine, our hands in my lap._

_''It's not the same,'' he says._

_''It can be,'' I reply, leaving all common sense behind._

_Without another word, he pulls at my hand, and my whole body follows. I crash into him and almost tip him over his bar stool. His lips are on mine before I can register it, and my brain completely shuts down._

_This is it. This is all there is._

*

Billy was right about moving the girls. I may be good at covering up my tracks and cleaning up behind me, but I'm not exactly untraceable. No one really is, in this day and age. I could use any amount of aliases and pay my bills in someone else's name for the rest of my life, but at the end of the day all it would take is a good computer.

Billy had sent a couple of his guys to help with the transport that day, darkened car windows and all. Totally not suspicious at all, I'd thought, even though they were dressed down and trying their best to look inconspicuous. You can always tell when someone is trained and lethal. It's in the way they move.

The girls had begged me to go with them, terrified - especially Nataliya. I suppose I'm the first person they've decided to extend at least some trust towards in years, and nothing about the guys from Anvil inspired confidence. The least I could do was keep them company for the first couple of days, until they got their papers - so I did. I couldn't ignore their fear.

We were situated in the newest, yet-to-be-furnished space on the completely other side of town from Anvil's main headquarters. Billy was always expanding, and though the place looked more like a warehouse than anything else, I knew that in a couple of months' time it would be bustling with life.

Billy had given me a couple of guys as security too, which I never asked of him, but still can't help but feel grateful for. The two never spoke a word to any of us, which only made the girls even more nervous - and though I suppose that, if shit hit the fan, they could be of help - I still didn't think it was necessary.

The girls ate and slept and walked around in circles for about a week until they could finally get their fake IDs. I'd be out for most of the day, and then come back to immense relief radiating off of each and every one of them. Their relief would somehow only make me feel worse. How am I the only person they have in their lives? How could the world treat them this way?

Day by day, one by one, they grew healthier and stronger, free of the shit that had been put inside of them. Amber had even asked me to teach her how to fight, and then pressed on asking for the next three days until I taught her a few simple tricks of self-defense. Alina, one of the Russian girls, wanted me to teach her to shoot. I'd told her that if this was something she really wanted, she would have plenty of opportunities once she gets back home to her life, and hoped I wasn't robbing her of something that might save her in days to come.

Billy was livid when he found out what the hell his doctor was taking out of them. He'd just about screamed at me for getting him involved, making him connect himself to this shit in any way. That was the first I'd heard from him since the day in the office, and I had to throw the phone on the couch and let him take it out on the walls.

Of course, I'd had no idea that the crap O'Rourke wanted to transport was this valuable. When I'd found out the digits, I was dizzy - if it hadn't been clear to me before, now I knew for certain that the Irishman would come for me. With the newest, rarest drugs on the market, the prices will make a man do anything.

Yet it still makes no sense - knowing Conor O'Rourke, this is the kind of stuff that's way out of his league and way above his pay-grade. There's no doubt that whoever he's working for, way up top, has got to be one of the most powerful criminals in NYC at the moment. That, or he's dipped his fingers in someone else's cookie jar.

Still, all I could really bring myself to care about was the fact that this shit was out of the girls' systems - it was potent enough to kill each of them in a heartbeat. I don't care what Billy's done with it all, as long as its gone. I don't even want to ask, though I suppose he's destroyed all evidence.

The day he came with the passports was the first time I saw Billy after he'd stitched me up. Everything up to that point was done in his name. He wasn't wearing another one of his three-piece suits, but somehow he was wearing just as much money. The Prada shoes, the pants, the cashmere sweater, the coat... it made him look just as foreign - another good reminder that the man before me is not quite the man I once knew.

''It's done,'' he'd said, handing me the whole stack, ''Late night and early morning flights, just in case we have a tail to lose. And you're staying here.''

''I-''

''You're not walking them to their God damn seats, Julia,'' he'd cut me off, ''You're staying here.''

So I'd told the girls goodbye right then and there, under the scrutiny of Billy's Anvil lackeys, and braved the pain in my shoulder as Nataliya held onto me for dear life. A couple of them hid tears. It only made me feel even more dirty.

They were escorted and put en route securely, and Billy had even pulled some strings to make sure they're alright on the other side and brought back to safety. I hadn't asked that of him either, but he'd done that. And all he asked in return was for me to stay until we're sure this thing with Carson Wolf wasn't a start of a shit-show.

Of course I couldn't stay. I mean, he had to have known that. This was our one last run together. He's the most clever person I know; he'd surely put it together.

I'd thanked him, genuinely and with all my heart. He didn't look surprised when I'd told him I wouldn't stay, but he couldn't hide that hint of disappointment. Then he'd insisted on sending me some security ''at least'', like a couple of goons at my door isn't only counter-productive, and like I can't handle whatever's coming at me. This isn't Wilson Fisk, for Christ's sake. This is a pathetic little Irishman trying to move up in the underworld.

Billy had given up offering, but I'm sure he has an eye on me still. That's not something I can really do anything about, unless I change my name again and move to Panama to sell expensive brand knock-off and clementines by crates. Honestly, I wouldn't put it past him to keep a string on me even then. I might just be his only loose end left.

It's more quiet now in this apartment than it's ever been. The sudden absence of the people that inhabited this space even for such a short time is deafening. Past the stain I haven't been able to get out of my carpet, there's nothing that would insinuate that those girls were ever here.

Caring is not a good idea when you're in this line of business, but sometimes it's just beyond one's decision. It's been days since I've been back here now, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about them, as assured as I've been that the girls are safe now. I have no idea why it is that William Russo is still one of the people I trust this much, either. That too, I suppose, is sometimes beyond one's decision.

Yet it's not the first time a gig has consumed me this much - I'd lie if I claimed otherwise. I could never completely detach myself from the job, not the way Billy or Frank could. I've always envied them for it. I've gone back to check on people countless times before, just to get my peace of mind. The difference this time is that I can't.

Maybe putting down O'Rourke will give me that peace of mind instead. He's out there somewhere right now, working his way to me.

Or maybe he's not. Maybe the Good Samaritan had gotten to him. That's another thing I haven't been able to stop thinking about.

I reach for my phone and almost dial my dad's number, then stop myself when I see the time. They'd freak out if I called them now, and mom would just about have a heart attack. They always assume the worst, even if I call them in the middle of the day. I can't blame them, either, especially now with even Alex away. Worrying over one child was more than enough, now they don't get to see either of us.

I haven't talked to them in months, and seen them in even longer, for their own good. Ever since Kandahar, I've kept a low profile and made my distance from just about anyone I ever even remotely cared about. I was paranoid, and I still can't figure out how deep this thing goes, especially now. If shit hits the fan, I don't want them to be near.

They don't know how much I miss them. They don't know anything, so they can't understand why I've cut them off this way. I call a couple of times a year and leave them more worried than they'd been before, and it's all I can do. I hate it, and sometimes I just want to talk to them, to hear their voices, nothing else. I want to feel that comfort only they can bring me. They're the only people that can make me feel safe, and I haven't felt that in so so long. I'm afraid of admitting how tired I am, and on nights like this, it piles up.

Hell's Kitchen is especially loud tonight. This neighborhood never sleeps, but on Friday nights it assumes a life of its own. Sitting here on the window thinking about all this shit won't help me get anything done.

I think it's time to pay Turk a visit.

*

_The kiss lasts a short moment, but feels like an eternity. The taste of his lips, the smell of his skin, the warmth of his closeness - it all makes me dizzy. I don't want to pull away, and when I do, he doesn't let me move too far away, hands still holding mine._

_''We could get in trouble, big time,'' I say, thinking about how we should probably move away from each other right now and go back to our God damn beds. My skin is still on fire and I can't shake it away. Every nerve in my body is fired up, and I feel like my heart might actually fail me._

_''We have a knack for that, don't we,'' Billy replies, the corners of his lips curling into a tiny smile._

_''I'm serious, Billy,'' I say nervously, my heart still in my throat, ''This isn't smart.''_

_''Probably,'' he agrees, shrugging._

_''So now what?'' I ask._

_''Now we finish these beers and go to sleep,'' he replies, ''And tomorrow morning I'm gonna pack and you're gonna kiss me goodbye before I leave.''_

_''Is that right?'' I raise an eyebrow at him._

_''Yeah,'' he tries to suppress a smirk, ''And then I'm gonna sleep away two weeks, hopefully, if New York allows me. Then I'm gonna pick you up at the airport.''_

_''Got it all figured out, huh,'' I say._

_''I'm just thinking as I go,'' he quips with a shrug, pulling me into another kiss. This time, I surrender myself to it, give up all control. It swallows me whole and carries me away, and I cannot bring myself to care about anything._

_''Come on,'' he says when we pull away, ''Grab the beer, let's go.''_

_''Where are we going?'' I ask, taking my bottle._

_''Any place where I'm not tempted to keep kissing you,'' Billy says, ''Or do you want us to get in trouble?''_

_I roll my eyes and playfully push him in front of me. He chuckles, faking a stumble._

_''I had a feeling this would happen,'' I tell him, as we walk back down the base. Finally, there's a fresh breeze to break through the humidity and warmth. It's soothing in more ways than one._  
  
_''You did?'' Billy raises an eyebrow. I grin._

_''Yeah,'' I admit, nodding, ''I usually do, about this kind of thing, oddly enough.''_

_''Yeah, right,'' he chuckles, and the sound floods me with nothing but warmth - the kind that softens your heart and melts the steel into a puddle._

_''Been thinking it over,'' I explain, ''Maybe it's because you're leaving before me. And this might actually be the last time we serve together.''_

_''Every time could be the last time,'' Billy scowls, ''But as long as there's all these taliban assholes running rampant around here, they're gonna keep putting us back together.''_

_''Well, either way, I had a feeling,'' I reiterate._

_''Well, I suppose it was a matter of time, wasn't it,'' he says, ''We've been playing stupid for a while now.''_

_I grab his hand, and make him stop in his tracks. He frowns at me, as though to ask me what's wrong._

_''Are you sure about this?'' I ask him, worry suddenly catching up with me._

_Billy pauses for a moment with another frown, then takes a step closer to me. He places a hand on my cheek and bores his eyes into mine._

_''Sure as all hell,'' he says. And God help me, but I believe him._

_''No more dancing around then,'' I say, giving in._

_And it's like I'm shrugging all the weight of the world off my shoulders. I can't care. We shouldn't care. I might die tomorrow, for all I know. I've been fighting for so long - fighting wars I made my own, fighting myself, fighting life._

_It's handed me shitty cards, this life - kicked me while I was down until I bled - and all I could think to do was stop playing defense. I wanted a proper enemy, something to fight. I joined the military because life had been consistently trying to kill me, and I was determined to die on my own terms. I was angry, and determined not to ever be weak again, but all it's done was change one war for another._

_I've been fighting my whole life. Maybe I get to stop for a moment. Maybe I get to rest._

_Maybe we get to have this._

*

''Somehow, I knew I'd find you here.''

Turk almost jumps at the sound of my voice, panicking, fumbling with whatever he's trying to hide in his car.

''God damn it,'' he almost stutters, ''You gon' have to stop popping out these damn shadows before you give a brotha a heart-attack. What is it with you people?''

''What do you mean 'you people'?'' I tease him, approaching him slowly, hands buried deep in the pockets of my jacket. The night is chilly.

''God damn vigilantes,'' he curses, closing up the trunk of his car, ''You gon' cost me my head.''

''First of all, I'm not a vigilante. Second of all, _you_ will cost you your head, Turk, because you don't use it,'' I tell him, as he straightens up nervously, leaning against the car now, ''And third of all, I was polite enough to let you deal with your customers first. And aren't you supposed to be on house arrest?''

I sit on the hub of his car, studying him. I'd seen the exchange from the shadowed corner of the alley - Turk is back in business as usual. He's never really _out_ of business, if we're going to be real about it.

''Don't know what the hell you talking about,'' he mutters a reply, acting stupid.

''Relax, Turk, whatever it is you're peddling this time, I can mind my own business,'' I tell him, ''But only if you tell me what I wanna know.''

''Yeah, it always starts like that,'' he argues, ''Then it always end up with you tryinna get me to say exactly the shit I can't say!''

''Conor O'Rourke,'' I get straight to the point, ''I know he's been looking for me. I'd like to beat him to it.''

''Yeah, he was,'' Turk says, ''Before he got shot in the head.''

''Shot in the head?!''

''Not two days ago. Right between the eyes too, clean as they come,'' he explains, showing it on his forehead, ''At first I thought it was one of y'all - you especially - since he was going around looking for you and shit.''

I'm sure O'Rourke had enemies, but the timing of this whole thing gives me an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach. I can't quite explain it, but I can't shake it away either. Something just feels _off._

''How did it happen?'' I ask.

''That's what's messed up,'' Turk says, ''Dude got killed in his own room, in his own damn safehouse. Whoever it was that got to him sure as hell got some skills. I'm betting on one of you vigilante folks-''

''Don't call me that.''

''I'm just saying what I know. There's always trouble where y'all go,'' he shrugs, ''And what I know is that O'Rourke was one of the damn few that escaped the Punisher's crazy ass back then. And look what happened.''

''Frank's dead,'' I argue, something breaking inside of me at the sound of my own words. It never hurts less, and the stab in my chest is excruciating.

''Yeah, well, maybe he's working from his grave then,'' Turk throws up his hands, ''All I know is folks is showing up dead.''

I don't like this. There have been copycats before - the Devil of Hell's Kitchen alone has had at least a dozen - but they never last, and most of the time they don't get to do much damage. If someone is finishing up whatever Frank couldn't...

''That all you wanna know?'' Turk wakes me up from my thoughts.

''Uh, yeah, Turk, thanks,'' I say, getting back to my feet.

''Look, I don't know why the man was after you, but you can rest easy knowing his sorry ass is dead,'' Turk says, ''Word of advice-''

''From you?'' I snort.

''Yeah, yeah, and cows gon talk soon,'' he waves it away, ''Go home, aight? Leave this world to people like me. The man's dead, so you ain't got a fight. Stop tryinna pick one all the damn time.''

''It's what I do, Turk,'' I shrug, walking away backwards, ''What's a solider without a war?''

''Alive?''

''Go home, Turk!'' I call out once I'm already out the alley, ''You're on house arrest!''

''You bet your ass I am!!!'' I can hear him shout back. I can't help but shake my head and grin. That man will never get smart. But he'll always be useful.

It starts raining, out of nowhere, all at once. I'm soaked in less than a minute, and I don't even try to run. There's no use. Weather in New York can be a treacherous bitch, but downpours like this rarely come this suddenly. I curse, pulling the hood of my jacket over, like it makes much of a difference.

Something about this rain reminds me of Frank. It was raining just as bad when they'd caught him, and it wouldn't stop for three days straight. I remember watching the trial as the rain hit my window-panes so hard I thought they would break. It stopped as suddenly as it had come.

Crazy how our minds work.

I couldn't understand why he never reached out to any of us back then. We would have tried to help him, all in our very different ways, and we would have never let him shoulder all of that shit alone. Billy and I would have done anything in the world for him. Instead, he went on a killing spree. Not that I blame him in the slightest.

Turk's words keep echoing in my mind. None of it makes sense. The Punisher is gone, and there's no reason for anyone to take up that mantle. Could it be an admirer of some sort? But why?

A dangerous thought creeps into my mind for a moment, and I instantly push it away. Frank's dead. Every time my brain chooses to remind me that they never found his body, I have to remind myself that it's because it's at the bottom of the Hudson. I could never afford to hold on to that delusion. And I won't start holding on to it now.

Frank Castle is dead. And if someone is doing anything in his name, it only goes to prove that Frank could never give up the war. It continues, even after he's dead. Maybe we're not that different in that, after all.

Maybe some of us don't get to rest.


End file.
